


the tiger & the rabbit

by pugilists



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Mental Health Issues, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 02:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19163815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pugilists/pseuds/pugilists
Summary: there's a painting in your living room and it won't stop bleeding





	the tiger & the rabbit

The tiger stares at you. Furious. You think it’s a hideous painting, with violent streaks of reds foregrounded by a vicious tiger ready to pounce on an unknowing rabbit. Asking why your father left one of his paintings to you feels like a pointless endeavour, you haven’t understood anything he’s done in a long, long time. Maybe it was to mess with you, or to have the final say. You tell yourself you don’t care, regardless.

Checking your watch, you realise you’re about to be late for coffee with your brother, so you pull yourself from the couch, feeling the tiger drill its snarling glare into your back as you leave.

 

“You weren’t at Dad’s funeral,” Ryan says after your conversation lapses into silence. He stops stirring honey into his tea to stare at you.

“That’s true.” There’s no excuse to offer so you look away to avoid making eye contact. It’s beautifully warm in Southbank and you can see the arbour from your table, flourishing deep purple. It makes you ache with longing for something you can’t name.

“I know you guys weren’t close but it’s the least you could have done for grandma to be there.” Ryan sips his tea. “She’s upset at you now.” 

You think you can hear smugness in his voice, it burns your throat. A feral anger digs into you.

You roll your eyes. “Is that what we’re saying now? That I wasn’t ‘close’ to him?” You’re not looking for an answer. “He’s dead. You don’t have to keep pretending.”

Ryan looks at you like you’ve slapped him, holding his cup dangerously still. “He wasn’t that bad,” he says quietly.

“Okay,” you say and bite down on your tongue. This is a conversation you have had with him a hundred times over.

You think Ryan might yell at you but instead he gets up, leaving his tea behind and refuses to look at you. His face is blank.

“I can’t believe I gave up my lunch break for this,” he mutters as he walks off.

You’re alone at the table, something hot and red burning in you. The bougainvillea wrapped around the arbour feels like it's mocking you now.

 

You nearly drop your coffee the next morning when you walk into the living room. The floor is red. The painting is dripping. Is the tiger closer to the rabbit now? Your hands shake as you walk back out, there’s no time for this.

 

This is the first date you’ve been on in a long time, you’re not sure why you agreed to let your brother set you up with his friend but at least he’s speaking to you again. The guy seems nice enough, Ryan told you he works as a primary school teacher. You try not to focus on the red paint all over your hands. It’s spread everywhere lately, you can’t even invite people over to your place anymore. He talks about his students for around ten minutes before jumping straight into another topic. He looks antsy.

“Ryan told me you guys lost your dad earlier this year,” he says carefully, “that’s awful.”

Forcing your clenched fist to relax you nod. “Yeah. Let’s talk about something else, like my job. Or more about yours,” you say pointedly.

“You don’t seem that upset,” he says, confused.

“Because I’m not. He was a bastard and we should talk about something else.” You feel like the tiger, ready to swallow him whole. The red on your hands burns. 

He nods. “That sucks,” he says but you know he’s not finished. “Can I just say that on behalf of all decent men, I’m so sorry he was like that.” He places his hand on top of yours.

There’s a sudden hysterical laughter and it takes you a second to realise that it’s yours. You’re shrieking like it’s the goddamn funniest thing you’ve ever heard. None of this feels real. When you bang your fists on the table you don’t even care that your date recoils.

“Christ,” he says, “I was trying to be nice. What do you want?”

 _Not an apology_ , you think. You just want to get this bloody paint off yourself. The chair scrapes on cement as you stand up and leave, you’re shaking.

 

The painting stays in your apartment for months. You gave up trying to clean the paint out of the carpet weeks ago. There’s red behind your eyelids when you try to sleep. It’s a surprise when you hear knocking and open the front door to see your sister. She looks annoyed. 

“Mum says you haven’t called her in two weeks,” Sarah says, following you into your kitchen. “You look like shit.”

“I’ll call her,” is all you say, putting on the kettle. 

Sarah doesn’t respond and you turn to her, she’s staring at the ugly painting. “You kept it?” she asks. She doesn’t see that half of the apartment is red. “Why?”

“Haven’t had time to chuck it,” you say, but you know it’s a lie. You’re staring at it again. It looks different. The rabbit is always the same but now the tiger looks like a savage cornered animal, petrified of the rabbit. It repulses you. Is that what you are? Still terrified of a dead man? You feel nauseous. You’re so fucking sick of seeing red. 

“Then do it now,” Sarah says. “It’s gross.”

You walk through the red and pick the painting up, you want to stomp on it or scream or cry. So you do. You slam it onto the floor and your hands follow, crashing violently onto the painting.

“Holy shit!” Sarah yells from the kitchen. “What is wrong with you?”

There’s no response from you as you beat the painting into the ground. Red paint is splattering everywhere. Your heart is making you feel like your entire body is pulsating. With a final fist to the canvas, you shriek, letting your anger tumble out of you like a spewing volcano. You’re sobbing as though you’re thirteen again, cowering from your father. 

Your sister approaches you slowly before crouching to your height. She moves to put a hand on your shoulder and instead hides it in her lap.

“Do you need help?” she asks. 

You nod desperately. You just want yourself back.


End file.
